


Home from Argentina

by FlyingMocha



Series: Equilibrium [4]
Category: James May's Man Lab RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Argentina Controversy, Episode Related, Episode: Top Gear Patagonia Special, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, SO MUCH FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 23:23:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14924813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingMocha/pseuds/FlyingMocha
Summary: James wasn't sure his fractured ribs would allow him to sit on a sofa, even, or anything else that he and Sim usually did together.  But after the catastrophe that was the Patagonia special, after returning home broken down and injured physically, emotionally, and perhaps even professionally, he needed his best friend.





	Home from Argentina

**Author's Note:**

> Might have gone slightly overboard with this one. It was written shortly after I was made to choose between a couple of close friends who were my inspiration for Equilibrium's version of Sim, and maintaining relationships with my relatives, all of whom apparently see sexual intent in basically everything that's not a handshake. The relatives lost that battle and I persist in being myself, but I've been exceedingly melancholy about it, and James and Sim make me feel a bit less alone.

James blew out a very small, very frustrated sigh as he made his way to the meeting he had scheduled this morning. It was cold in England today. It had been cold in Argentina. And Chile. And even on the plane, where he tended to feel a little warm, he'd been chilled. James was so unspeakably sick of being cold. His ribs, broken in a fall from that idiotic horse in… wherever they had been when they sprang on him that horses would be involved in the trip… his ribs hurt every time he shivered. He'd run the heat so high at home, trying to stay warm enough to be comfortable that Sarah had taken to sleeping downstairs on the sofa, with a fan on. She didn't even tell him she was uncomfortable; she just got the fan out of the loft and did it.

He felt a bit guilty about that, but if she were the one injured, there was no question in his mind that he'd have done the same, without complaint. It's just what it means to love someone, to be someone's spouse… well, all right, not legally, but they'd long ago gotten to the stage in their relationship where neither cared whether the government acknowledged their relationship as a marriage.

Reaching one hand out to rest on the tea in his cup holder just for the hope that it would somehow magically stop the shiver he could feel building up in his spine, James hoped that the meeting location would be warmer. Taking the first easy parking space he could find, he pulled his coat closer around himself as he steeled himself against the outside air. The shock of it still sent a shudder through his body when he opened the car door, followed by a quiet grunt of pain. He could do this, he repeated to himself as he pulled his aching body out of the Panda, momentarily fantasising about owning a taller vehicle just so he didn't have to climb up out of the car. Glancing back at the cup holder, he elected to abandon the tea. Not worth bending over to retrieve it. He did, however, open the back door and grab the pillow he'd brought. He wasn't sure if he'd need it to cushion his back, or lay it over himself for support in case of a sneezing fit, but one thing Top Gear had taught him early on was to always keep a pillow on-hand when recovering from any kind of torso injury. He made his way gingerly down the pavement until he got to the appointed location, then very carefully climbed the step. The door swung open as he reached it.

"James!" Sim cried, his exuberant smile lighting up the whole porch. It was quickly replaced with a look of concern as he took in the careful way that his friend stepped over the threshold. "You're broken," he said, stating the bleeding obvious. He knew James had fractured some ribs, but he hadn't realised it would affect him this much.

"It's gotten a lot better," James assured his friend. "The cold just… shivering hurts, Simmy."

"Let's get you warm, then," the younger man said as he swept himself back from the doorway, giving James ample space in the home's small foyer. As soon as the door closed, he caught James in perhaps the most careful hug ever, holding his arms loosely around the very top of his friend's shoulders. "How are we going to do this with your ribs?" he mused. James had been wondering that as well, actually. This was uncharted territory in their unusual friendship, but Sim had made it abundantly clear that James was to tell him if he needed affection, full stop. Any logistics issues that arose as a result of the request were not part of that decision. So when James had come home from Argentina, broken-down and injured physically, emotionally, and perhaps even professionally, he had simply texted the magic words, "I need you," and a meeting time had been scheduled.

Now, in Sim's living room, they had to sort out the logistics. Sim gave James a thoughtful look, the look that often meant he was doing engineering work in his head. "If you were going to sit up to read in bed, how would you do it?"

"Pillows and folded-up blankets," James answered. It was how he'd spent the first week sleeping, propped up so that his battered body wouldn't have to work so hard to pull himself out of bed in the morning.

"Anything else I need to know?" Sim asked. James shook his head, then paused, staring at the sofa. Like most comfy lounging furniture, it was quite near to the floor. "What?"

"I don't suppose the sofa is on a hydraulic lift?" James asked weakly. Sim gave him a confused look, then chuckled dryly when he realised what James was getting at.

"Getting up from a low level is too much for you," he mused. "You need something taller to sit on, like a bed."

James peered at Sim, as they both began to suspect that they were developing the same solution to the problem. "I know this is a question that a man shouldn't ask a friend," James began somewhat timidly, "but do you think we could have our visit upstairs?" He shifted from one foot to the other nervously, more than a little uncomfortable with the situation.

"At some point, you've got to discard that phrase and accept that our friendship is built on our own terms, James," Sim responded. "I think my room would be the best environment for you, yes. It's warmer, as well, and we have plenty of blankets and pillows."

James' discomfort eased slightly in response to Sim's mild reprimand. The engineer had been gently encouraging him for the past six or so months to let go of hesitation and the fear of rejection that James was still allowing himself to trip over in the navigation of their unique friendship. He drew a careful breath, trying not to irritate his ribs. "I'll make tea," James said.

Sim nodded with a grin, grabbing a cushion off the sofa and scurrying upstairs to prepare, while James let himself be soothed by the ritual of brewing tea in Sim's familiar kitchen. Sim carried the mugs, leaving James' hands free to cling to both stair railings as he worked his way up. He was experienced at stairs, but it was still rough.

So was the process of arranging cushions to support him. James explained what worked at home, then waited while Sim configured, tested, ran downstairs for more sofa cushions, and tested some more until he'd built an incline big enough for two. After grilling James about positioning and which side of the bed he favoured -- another question, James had decreed, that a man should never ask his friend -- the two of them settled down under a blanket, James on his back, Sim on his side close but not quite touching James. James rested his hand on his stomach and Sim's hand lay gently on top of it, providing all the contact he could figure out how to while still avoiding the injured area. 

"Sarah called me, after she heard what happened," Sim said, broaching the obvious subject as gently as he could. He'd long ago learned that conversation was usually a need that provoked James' calls, and not just touch, but getting him to actually talk was a bit more of a challenge, this time.

"She was worried," James said, in an apologetic tone, as if her worry had been unnecessary and the call had been unwarranted.

"She was right to be, James," Sim said. "I was worried about you. Hell, Richard Hammond's wife called after it hit the news, trying to convince me not to be worried. I didn't even know she had my number. That's how worried everyone was when the BBC started calling spouses." James shot a grumpy look at Sim, intent on telling him off for worrying, but he couldn't follow through with it. Once he saw the naked concern in his friend's eyes, his heart melted and he gave a sheepish half-smile.

"So it got a bit hairy," James acknowledged.

"Sarah told me you sounded scared when you finally got to speak with her." Sim let the statement hang in the air between them, like a bit of bait and he was the fisherman, patiently waiting for James to give in and bite. James gave him a perturbed frown. He didn't want to admit to it, didn't want to talk about it. But, he did want to; that was why he'd asked for some of Sim's time.

James nodded, all the admission he could manage. "It got… dangerous for just a little bit. They thought getting us out of there would help, but it didn't. The people just wanted to riot, to cause damage… they wanted to hurt people. We had to abandon so much BBC property when we fled. Stuff we were supposed to sell afterwards. Even the cars were probably meant to… I don't know why anybody would buy a car after we three have beat it to death, but people do. There was nothing we could do, by the time we realised it had the potential to turn violent, it was too late, the security team was already making us hide under the beds. All over a damn number plate, Sim. All because it never occurred to us that the numbers mean anything other than that your vehicle is properly legal. How could we have misjudged it that badly?" James fell silent, but even the silence spoke volumes, Sim observed, watching the way his eyes shone with unshed tears. He wasn’t just frightened by the behaviour of the people in Argentina. He was deeply hurt by their actions, by the incomprehensible level of, from James' perspective anyway, irrationality. 

Sim scooted up the inclined surface a little bit so he could press his forehead to James' temple. He wasn't at all sure what to do -- how do you help a friend who's been under siege by a violent mob, only to come home to a whole different kind of mob consisting of his employer, embassies and government officials and… James and his Top Gear cohorts weren't diplomats; they were just some guys playing around with cars. They couldn't possibly be expected to know how to navigate this kind of incident, nor even to have anticipated it, and yet that's what people expected, Sim knew from reading the papers. And all Sim could do was sit here. He felt unutterably useless. And yet James responded well to the closeness, giving a slightly relaxed sigh and pressing into Sim's touch, so he must be on the right track.

"If you want to protest, you do it with signs and annoyingly catchy slogans, not rocks and weapons," James muttered, clearly still processing the experience. "When you get your way, when the other side gives in to your demands, you stop, go to the pub and celebrate… whatever. You don't chase their bloody minions out of the country threatening to kill them. You don't… it was our mistake, not the crew's. We had damn interns on that trip… we had to take all the women when we fled because the security consultant was concerned that… that they could be… nobody should ever have to go to work and worry about something like… just… Simmy..." James finally gave in, finally let the tears fall. It was the first time since his equine accident that he'd felt he was in a safe enough place to even acknowledge the mountain of pent-up stress. Here, he didn't have to be head of household, protector and provider, master of his job, parent to two nine-year-old men, calmly controlled voice of reason, or any of his other roles that could be summed up as "shining example of British stoicism". Everywhere else in his life, he wore all of those hats, usually all at once. But here… here, he could quite simply be. It was perhaps the greatest gift he and Sim could give one another.

Sim disengaged long enough to grab the tissue box from the nightstand. The first time one of them had cried, it had been almost unendurably awkward, and they'd both had to resist the urge to run screaming for the hills. And of course it had been dear, sweet, out-of-touch-with-himself James who'd done it, so Sim had had to work hard to draw him back out of his shell, to reassure him that he hadn't destroyed their friendship with his failure to be perfectly impervious and stereotypically masculine. Now, however, they'd developed an uncomfortable sort of comfortable-ness about sharing their less proud moments with each other. It wasn't enjoyable; there were many things they'd rather do together, than this. But it was real, and it was evidence of their commitment to their awkward, offbeat friendship. It was a sign of trust and respect -- trust that their discussions would stay private, that it was safe to let their guard down… respect for the other person's needs, respect in not concealing life's pains under a veneer of "I'm fine, and you?"

"It was so stressful," James said, after a few minutes. "And so utterly stupid. I -- do they really think -- I can't even put into words how stupid the whole mess was. I really can't, other than by just swearing a lot."

"You're welcome to do that if it makes you feel better," Sim said with an impish grin. "You won't offend me."

"Yes, I know, Mr F-word-on-camera," James responded with a mischievous grin of his own. Sim buried his face in James' shoulder with a groan of dismay. Of all the stupid things he'd done over the years, of course that was the one James remembered best.

"That junk mail train was evil!" Sim nearly shouted in frustration.

"It was, wasn't it?" James turned just enough to find Sim's gaze and hold it. "You were bloody brilliant, though. I'm so glad I got to be a part of that."

"It was your show; of course you were part of it." James made a hum of disagreement at Sim's words.

"You never caught on, did you?" James asked. "It was your show, Simmy. I was just there for name recognition, to attract viewers and share your brilliance… show them what I see in you." Sim blushed bright red at that, groaning in embarrassment as he turned his head downward, a bit away from James' line of sight.

"A love letter," Sim muttered in a tone that blended playful with smartarse.

"If you allow for definitions of love apart from Eros," James said by way of acknowledgement.

"I do think the Greeks had something of a point, with the variety of words and the precision allowed by them, yes," Sim agreed. James gave a hum of affirmation. Sim wasn't sure what he was expecting when he finally gathered the nerve to look up again, but it wasn't to find his friend staring awkwardly across the room, glancing periodically at him as if he expected… well, something bad to happen.

Sim found himself surprised by his friend, yet again. James May, the person who dances on television, who lets his colleagues make him the butt of nearly all their jokes, puts all his quirks on film and magnifies them for good measure… who gives no damn whatsoever about what people think of him… was afraid of rejection? Of Sim's rejection? After all they'd been through together? Sim laughed gently, realising suddenly just how dead accurate his flippant love letter comment had been. "Yes, I love you too, James," he said softly, his tone warm and welcoming. He grinned as he watched James relax at not just Sim's admission, but the realisation that his own hadn't been taken the wrong way.

"We perhaps should have had this discussion in another venue," James commented. Sim gave him a weird look, then glanced around -- at the bedroom Sim shares with his wife. The pair of friends burst into laughter at the absurdity of their situation.

"All right, that's a bit awkward," Sim agreed. "But there was no avoiding it. I was going to ask you to visit today, if you hadn't beat me to it."

"Really?" James asked. Despite Sim reminding him otherwise, he often felt like he was the one making the lion's share of the requests for quiet time together. "What's going on?" Sim shook his head.

"Just spent the last week worrying about my best friend, his health, his emotional well-being, even his job," Sim answered, equal parts sheepish and straightforward. "I know it's silly but I wanted to see for myself that you're all right."

"Not that silly," James muttered, noticing that somewhere along the way their hands had turned around a bit to cling to one another, fingers intertwined. "For reasons that pass the understanding, I wanted to see that you were all right, too."

"But you were the one in Argen--"

"I didn't say it was a rational need!" James cut him off with a frustrated tone, then gave a tense laugh. "It's really hard to work with Jeremy," James confessed, seemingly out of nowhere. Sim nodded, accustomed to James' sharing being more driven by his increasing sense of security than any linear thought process. "People really hate him. Not the majority, but there's that very vocal group that just… is so desperate to see harm come to him, and they don't really care if they take anyone else down along with. Hell, half the things he gets blamed for are mistakes Richard or I made. I know how he… but it's not like that. I wouldn't work with somebody who was genuinely obnoxious just to… just for the sake of being a bully."

"I know you wouldn't," Sim answered. "I've never questioned your wisdom in working with him. I know others do, and, all right, sometimes I do wonder why, but I trust that you know what you're getting into."

"I do," James agreed. "I doubt we'd have ever been friends if not for our work together, but the bastard has grown on me, I admit. That's why I work so hard with him, why we scrutinise every single line, how we can wring the most laughs out of each word. I wouldn't bother investing that much of myself if there weren't, honestly, a lot of mutual respect."

Sim blew out a quiet huff of a chuckle. "So that's why you were always knocking yourself out rewriting your remarks for Man Lab." James hummed in agreement.

"You have your welding torch; I have my computer." Sim nodded his understanding of the comparison. "Simmy..? I have another one of those questions that a man should never ask a friend…"

"All right, that phrase ends now," Sim said, apparently hitting his limit. "Social norms are helpful in that we all know generally what to expect from others, and what various gestures mean, I understand that. But not here, all right? The whole lot of social rules are hereby banished. With that in mind, try your question again."

James blew out a frustrated sigh, shooting Sim a glare that spoke more of uncertainty than actual irritation with the younger man. "Do you think we could put a movie on?" he asked, nodding towards the television mounted to the wall opposite the bed. "The pain pills do me in, almost as much as the pain does."

Sim nodded in response. "I'll run downstairs and grab a war film… oh, or I got a new documentary last week. Astrophysics… you interested?" Sim grinned at the way James lit up at the idea, and set up the DVD, rolling his eyes as James took the opportunity to draw him closer when he returned to his place. "Yeah, I thought this might be what you actually wanted to ask for," Sim said as he ran his fingers through James' hair, his tone nearly as indulgent as his smile.

"At least we have a new low point against which to compare," James said suddenly, provoking Sim to shoot him a confused look. "Remember, a few years ago, Americans throwing rocks and stuff because they thought we were... well, whatever they thought." Sim blinked, then laughed heartily. "Now when we want to say a trip wasn't the worst ever, we'll have to say they didn't… throw flaming bricks or… pitchforks… that doesn't quite roll off the tongue well, I'll have to work with Clarkson on it."

"I hope you never manage to outdo this low. Or even the old one again, for that matter." Sim's amusement gave way to calm quiet as the science programme started to get into the interesting bit, sucking them both into its world of wonder.


End file.
